


Two Leggers are Almost Interesting

by HawkSong



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24998311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawkSong/pseuds/HawkSong
Summary: In which Blancmange de Borel, owner of one Aymeric de Borel, tolerates visitors. Again.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Original Character(s), Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place shortly after Estinien's awakening (specifically during the time when Berylla is off vision hunting, for those following "Aren't You Cold")

The Hissy One was back. She didn't understand quite why her Person kept letting the creature in. Hissy One never gave pettings, and it smelled of snakes and something that made all of her fur stand up. She generally made a point of greeting the Hissy One exactly once - upon arrival - and then tucked herself in a high place, so that she might keep an eye on the troublesome creature.

Today, she had not greeted, having already been in a good napping spot. But she would watch.

Why did it have to be the Hissy One again, anyway? Why did the Quiet One not visit here anymore? Or the Laughing One? Only this irritating thing, and the other, the red female.

She did not like  _ her _ at all. Her Person was  _ her Person _ , meant to pay attention only to  _ her _ ...but perhaps it was merely that the red female was in her season. Yes, that must be the explanation. Hmph.

She stretched once and cleaned her shoulder.

Well. Old Friend's bed was comfortable, and the room quiet enough to allow her to meditate and clean her fur.

Old Friend came in, and put down the poison water. Why the two leggers drank poison was one of the mysteries she would never, ever fathom. The stuff stank so badly, even creatures with weak noses such as theirs should gag. She sighed a little, and arranged her limbs more comfortably. Poison water meant that her Person would be talking endlessly, until the Hissy One left. Or until they went upstairs, to most rudely lock her out of _her_ room again.

She half-lidded her eyes. So boring.

“She misses you, Estinien. Why do you persist in avoiding her?”

“And what do _you_ know of it?”

“Don't level that jealous glare at me, old friend. You know me – and Nightbird – better than that.”

The dragoon knocked back half his brandy and then cupped the glass between his palms, staring into the amber liquid as if seeking answers within it. “I can't, Aymeric. I can't...no, I _won't_ force her to look at me again. Not after she saw me...then. Not after I hurt her.”

“She told me that she wants to speak to you.” Aymeric sipped his own brandy, and watched his friend's face tighten. “She said, most emphatically, that she did not hold you responsible for the actions for which Nidhogg used your body.”

“But _I do_.” If Estinien clenched his jaw any tighter, Aymeric thought his teeth might shatter.

“Why? You did not hold it against me that I tried to kill you. Can you not extend yourself the same forgiveness?”

Estinien drank the rest of his brandy and set the glass down with exaggerated care. Aymeric wasn't fooled. The dragoon was shaking badly. The brandy hadn't even taken the edge off his state.

“I don't deserve forgiveness,” the silver haired man grated. “I'm not as I once was, Aymeric. I'm not...not...” He stopped, and put one hand over his eyes. There was an air about him that told the lord commander that his friend was nearly ready to bolt from the room.

Aymeric set down his brandy and glanced at the time. He'd never seen his friend quite this distressed. He wasn't sure, now, if he could keep Estinien here for another five minutes.

Well. There was one thing. Possibly a foolish gambit, but when had he been other than a fool, when it came to Estinien?

He got up from his chair and came around the table, to stand beside the dragoon.

“You are not the same,” he agreed quietly. “But you are not a monster. No more than ever you were.”

“I have been a monster for years, Aymeric.”

“And so you imply I have befriended a monster, then?” Aymeric made his tone scathing. “That I made love with a monster?”

Estinien's head jerked up and he stared at Aymeric, eyes wide. His cheeks were suspiciously damp. “You – but – dammit, Aymeric,” he stammered. “That's not the same...!”

Aymeric cut him off by leaning down, grabbing his chin, and planting a kiss on Estinien's mouth.

She lifted her head, peering down. Her Person was attacking the Hissy One? An unusual development. Should she assist?

But no. No, something else was happening. She watched with only mild interest. Did male two-leggers also have mating seasons? Strange creatures that they were, she could believe it.

Her ears twitched, hearing the back door open, and when she heard footsteps she did not recognize, she turned her head just enough to look toward the door. Her vantage here let her see into the hallway, which was one reason she liked this spot so much.

Her ears pricked forward, and her tail thumped once. A female – a female with ears and a scent of being Real.

She stood up, and eyed the newcomer as she strode into the room.

She spoke – more of the mouth noises that most two-leggers used. And yet, this Real creature – a Person, but a Real creature nonetheless – gave off the definite scent of one defending her territory. Her tail was a battle banner and her ears might as well have been a shout of displeasure.

Blancmange set her paws on the edge of the cabinet, tensing. The creature was five times her size, but Real or not, if she dared lay a claw on Her Person...

Estinien's reaction to Aymeric's somewhat desperate action had surprised the lord commander. The dragoon could have punched him across the room, after all, or pushed him aside and gotten up to leave. Instead Estinien's hands had come up and clutched at his robes, pulling him closer.

And yet he didn't pursue the kiss. The moment Aymeric backed off a little, the other man buried his head against Aymeric's belly and his hands let loose the robe to wrap around his waist. The same posture he had taken, the last night that he and Aymeric and Haurchefant had been together. The same desperate seeking after comfort.

Aymeric's body remembered that night quite well, and the lord commander struggled to contain his reaction. It wasn't what was needed this time, damn it. He held Estinien's shoulders, and clung to self-control.

He wasn't weeping, of course he wasn't going to _cry_ in the lord commander's arms. But Estinien quaked with the effort of holding back. He kept his cheek against Aymeric's belly, and his eyes shut, warring with himself. He shouldn't even have come here. Why had he answered Aymeric's request? He should be out in the wilds, like the beast he truly was. He didn't belong here anymore.

He didn't belong _anywhere_. He was unnatural. How could it be otherwise? He had seen the marks. The scars, yes, but as ugly as they were, they troubled him not.

The marks on his soul...the gouges left behind, the nightmares and the waking dreams, the moments when he came to himself and wasn't sure what he'd been doing for the last hour...

That terrified him more than anything. That perhaps Nidhogg was not truly gone, after all. That he was merely dormant, some piece of him, lurking and waiting. The healers had assured him that his body and his aether were whole, untainted, that he had nothing to fear. But they weren't in his head.

Nightbird all but ran down the hallway, her steps quick and quiet in the slippers she wore. She had received the note and had come _immediately_ to House Borel, fiercely glad for the paths she had learned in the summer. She could reach the manor in thirty minutes on the streets. With what Estinien had taught her, even though she was no dragoon, she could cut that time in half.

She noted the white, fluffy cat perched on top of a cabinet in the sitting room – noticed its alert posture and keen gaze. But she ignored it – a house-cat was the least of her worries right now.

She paused in the doorway, however, when she saw Aymeric holding Estinien. For one moment, she struggled against instinct that demanded she launch herself at the lord commander, an instinct that screamed “ _Mine!_ ”

It hit her so hard she was almost dizzy for a moment. She'd heard of such reactions from other Miqote – it was among the reasons for the ways in which the tribes handled males and females and their roles within the tribe. She'd never seen it herself – what little her own family had taught her, she'd long since forgotten, but she knew enough not to go visiting random tribal villages. She had never, ever thought she'd experience such a reaction personally.

She choked it all down, fought it as fiercely as ever she'd battled monsters, and finally will overpowered instinct and she could breathe normally again.

The two men still hadn't noticed her – though the cat looked as if it were ready to leap on her at the least excuse, its eyes wide now and its body tense. She looked directly at it, and her gaze seemed to wilt the thing's intentions.

Then she returned her attention to the reason she was here in the first place.

“ _Estinien_.”

Estinien pulled away from Aymeric, scrambling to his feet. _No, she can't be here, she can't see me – gods damn him, Aymeric tricked me into coming here!_

He nearly tripped over the couch, so badly rattled that he had no grace whatsoever. But she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes fixed on him and she came at him – almost as if she would lunge for his throat. He backed away, trying to shift sideways and make good his escape, but she matched him and Aymeric was standing in the doorway and then she was on him.

Inches shorter than he, and yet when her delicate hands latched onto his doublet, he had no doubt whatsoever that she could pick him up handily and _throw_ him. He wondered if she would do just that. She looked furious.

Abruptly he _wanted_ her to throw him. To hit him, to yell at him, to tell him exactly how awful he was. He surely must deserve it.

She stared up into his face. Once, he would have met her stare with one of his own, would have stood tall against her and given her a fight.

He was no longer that man. He was a broken, piteous creature, barely human at all.

He did not look away.

Nightbird's grip tightened on the tan doublet and she yanked Estinien down to her eye level.

“You come back into the city and you don't even leave me a message,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. “You force me to beg Aymeric to get in touch with you. And you have the balls to run away from me now. I know you've taken a lot of blows to the head, Estinien, but are you really _that much of a friggin' idiot?_ ”

She growled the last words and then paused, taking a deep, deep breath. Her voice turned musical – not in the way she did it when they were alone together. The way she did it on the battlefield.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose as her eyes _changed_.

“You _are_ going to hear me out. You're going to listen to me. You're going to by the gods believe me, Wyrmblood.”

The power hit him, like flood-waters rising, pulling him under before he understood what was happening. He sank to his knees and his eyes stayed fixed on hers even as they glowed with a golden light. He felt her magic touch him, and some part of him was able to be astonished – how could she be _doing_ that, using abilities from white magic alongside song magic? Two completely different disciplines!

But most of him was dragged under and swallowed up in the hypnotic lilt of her voice, the power of her song.

It went beyond mere words. She sang to his soul with her own. She sang to him of all that he had been, and somehow showed him how much he had _not_ lost, could never lose. She wove melodies of memory all around his heart, and like bandages they bound him up. She didn't take away one speck of his pain or his fear. But she put in place the things that would let him heal on his own.

Through it all she wound around and around him comfort, warmth, reminders of his own humanity in the form of tiny memories – things she couldn't possibly have seen, but somehow her magic sought them out.

He felt her coming closer to the worst of it and he quailed once more, tried to hide. A noise came from him, wholly unmusical, and she wrapped her arms around him and set her mouth on his and still somehow her song went on and on...

Tears leaped from his eyes. He had hurt her, so badly. It didn't matter that Nidhogg had been in command of his limbs, his lips. It had been his body that had done such awful things. He was stained by that shame, and she didn't deny it.

But she showered him in forgiveness nonetheless. Bathed him in mercy and grace the likes of which he could never have had the courage to beg. For an instant, it as was if Halone Herself stood in the very room with them, behind Nightbird, Her great hand held over him in absolution.

Aymeric watched carefully. He didn't understand what he was seeing, and he had a feeling he wasn't hearing everything Nightbird was saying, but that didn't matter. So long as Estinien did not leave this room – not until it was safer. Aymeric was under no illusions about the dragoon's sanity. He was only glad that his friend had not yet done himself harm. He wasn't about to allow him out of his sight again until he was certain that danger was past.

The room grew dim as twilight drew its veil across the city.

Estinien broke down, weeping in Nightbird's arms as he had not wept against Aymeric. Wept like a traumatized little boy, like a man who had lost everything. Nightbird held him, and murmured to him, and Aymeric knew what she was saying even if he could not hear her.

He didn't wipe the water away from his eyes.

Blancmange observed the goings-on with alert interest. Yes, this female was most _certainly_ Real. And it seemed she was a spinner as well, weaving the powers around the Hissy One in ways that none of the other two-leggers had ever done. Not here, at any rate. Almost fascinating, really, though her efforts were ones that Blancmange herself would never have bothered with. But then, she wasn't mated. Those two _obviously_ must be.

And it seemed to make her Person happy, though it was a strange and trembling happiness of a kind she had never smelled from him.

Almost fascinating. But not quite.

With her Person well in range, and the other two clearly involved with each other, she decided she'd had enough.

She warned him before she leaped, this time. Sometimes, it was amusing to surprise him. But right now it would delay getting what she wanted, so she politely sang his name to him.

He caught her in his arms as she leaped down to him, like the good Person he was, and she purred and rubbed her cheek against the metal he wore. His fingers arrived just in time for her to lift her head against them, just as was proper, and she purred further, pleased.

But when she spoke again, telling him sweetly that it was time for her food, he didn't appear to hear her. His eyes were fixed on the two creatures at the other end of the room, for some mysterious reason. They weren't doing anything remotely interesting, at this point; mating behaviors were the same no matter the number of legs.

She spoke again, more firmly this time, and rubbed her head against his hand. She even granted him a small wash of one knuckle, to let him know she wasn't angry with him.

And still he did not respond! Worse, he dripped water on her lovely fur! Put out, she nipped the knuckle she'd just cleaned.

Aymeric gave a very small yelp as Blancmange sank her teeth into his knuckle, and looked down at the cat in his arms. “What has gotten into you?” he wondered. She rarely bit him. He glanced at the time piece on the mantle and saw that it was about the time she was normally fed.

“All _right_ , you tyrannical feline,” he told her, “go on to the kitchen.” He set her down, and gave her a final pat on the head. She gave him a look of such offense that he almost blushed, and sauntered off, her tail lashing.

He shook his head as he turned his attention back to his friends. It might be a long night, but somehow, he knew all would be well by the morning.

Blancmange strutted into the kitchen, and spoke imperiously to the ankles she found there. It didn't matter if it was Old Friend, or his mate. Either would do for the simple task of serving her dinner. As she accepted a tribute of head scratches and a plate of salmon, she resolved to sleep in Old Friend's bed tonight. Her Person would be back to normal come morning. Then, all would once more be right in her world.

And really, _her_ happiness was all that mattered, anyway.


	2. A Smudge on the White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which something is terribly wrong

Something was terribly wrong, and Blancmange could not fathom how it had occurred.

She stared at the interloper, eyes wide, tail lashing, whiskers tight to her muzzle.

First, her Person had let in an entire herd of two-leggers – an occurrence that was becoming much too common – and then they had made such a _racket_ that she had had to retreat all the way to the top floors to escape the noise. She had seriously considered leaving a sternly worded message on the bedroom door about the matter...but then she had recalled that two-leggers didn't understand Real messages. Adding a scolding to her list of vexations was not an attractive notion.

And now, this... _thing_ – when had it arrived? With the so-noisy, small two-legger? The Red female was with them, and the Real one as well, and another, smaller one. That one, with his white hair and sweet smell, had been almost interesting, if there had not been far too much noise and chaos for an introduction. But she had not caught scent of another of her own kind.

The interloper looked her way, and spoke, and her fur bushed out even more as she realized.

It was a _kitten_.

Oh no. No, no, no, this simply would not do. She was no mothering sort! She was a Queen, she had things to _do!_ She could not be held responsible for someone else's offspring! She eyed it nervously. At least it seemed old enough to not try coming to her for food.

Pitiful thing. She had seen rats that were larger. And glossier. She extended her head, a little, sniffing...only to retreat back a dozen steps and a hiss when the kitten tumbled forward with a happy yowl.

Her warning set it back on its heels, and it gave her a confused look and then...the worst thing it could possibly have done: it _cried_.

She heard footsteps immediately, and backed up further, against the wall, growling. Her ears flattened and she curled her tail, knowing there was likely to be some form of scolding. Though the words of two-leggers meant little to her, it was annoying and humiliating to be lectured, and she tended to avoid it as a rule...

But it was not her Person who came into the hallway to intercede on behalf of the now-wailing kitten.

Blancmange stared at the small two-legger in deep offense. Oh, by the first fur, surely _this one_ wasn't going to try to fuss at her.

But no, the kitten was being scooped up in little hands and held, and whispered to, and made much of. Blancmange grumbled to herself, not happy with this inequity of attentions, and yet also not willing to draw any further attention to herself.

“Smudge, why are you crying? Oh.”

Hara picked the kitten up and soothed him, but only half her attention was on him. The very fluffy, _very_ offended white cat sat against the wall, its limbs tucked up, its ears down, and glared at the two of them. Hara eyed the creature, then smiled.

She got down on her knees, a body length or so away from the adult cat, and whispered to her little friend.

“Smudge, you sit right here, okay? And don't go anywhere.”

Smudge's response was more or less “Do I have to?” - though not in words the way people talked. Hara was so used to it that she simply didn't notice the difference anymore. But, he stayed put when she set him down next to her, just tucked against her leg. He trusted her.

Now. Would this older cat trust her or not? She'd never spoken to a grown-up cat before.

 _You never know unless you try_. That's what her mother had always said. Before the sting of thinking of her mother could make her cry, she took a breath and concentrated on the white cat.

“Hello,” she said softly, and held her fingers out, low to the ground, while also focusing in that funny way that let her make her own words into the kinds of words the animals used.

Blancmange started when the two-legger used a Real word.

“Hello.”

“What?” She couldn't help the response, she was simply so startled to hear Real speech from a two-legger. How was it even possible?

But the small creature just waited, patiently, fingers held out where they could be sniffed. Or clawed to the point of bleeding.

Blancmange eyed those fingers thoughtfully. She was feeling _extremely_ put out, and this small creature was one source of her agitation. She had justification for taking some of that out on those soft looking fingers.

But she decided instead to smell of her. After all, clawing was still an option.

The white cat edged forward, extending its head, and giving a very small sniff and a light touch of whiskers across the tips of her fingers. Hara smiled. “You must not like strangers very much, huh? Don't worry, I am only visiting. May I pet your fur? It's very pretty.”

A deep, considering look from ice-blue eyes and then, very softly, “You may.”

“Oh, thank you.” Hara leaned forward, her other hand on the floor to support her weight, and gently stroked the silken fur with one finger. “Are you in charge here?”

“Of course,” the cat's ear twitched.

“Will you let me introduce my friend?”

There was a sense of discomfort – an edge of nervousness, a flicker of disdain, and a strong dose of not wanting things to change.

But after a moment more of petting, the white cat nodded. “Very well.”

Hara sat up, and reached for Smudge. She set him down, halfway between herself and the white cat, and held him between her hands. “Just say hello,” she murmured to the kitten. “This isn't someone to play with, not today.”

Smudge made a couple of noises – to Hara it was the same as her own habit of shuffling her feet a little before speaking – and then mewed once. “Hullo...”

The white cat sighed deeply. “Hello.” She eyed the two of them. “Why are you here? And more pettings now.”

Hara kept Smudge near her own legs and leaned forward to continue stroking the regal head. “We don't have a home,” she explained quietly as she petted. “Smudge's mother is dead. So is mine, now.” Hara concentrated extra hard on petting just _so_ around the ears, but it didn't help very much, and a couple of tears ran down her face anyway. It hurt to think of her mother. The grown-ups all said it was normal, but she knew they had no patience for a weeping child. She would learn to handle it on her own.

Blancmange smelled the grief on the girl and looked up. Her Person had that scent to him a great deal recently. She had realized, at last, that the Laughing One was not coming to visit again, and had done what she could to comfort her Person. Two-leggers were remarkably poor at handling death, for all their facility at dealing it out. Delicate creatures that they were, she knew her Person had needed her help. Comfort was, after all, one of the great magics of her kind. It was one reason why the gods had made them.

She stood up, tail uncurling, and bumped the fingers with her muzzle. “There, there.”

Hara blinked as the white cat stood and shoved her head against her hand, beginning to purr. It was a particular purr, the one Smudge had used so often to comfort the both of them, different from the happiness purr in ways she couldn't have explained even if she'd been a grownup.

Smudge retreated from the larger cat, climbing into Hara's lap and then up her dress until he reached her shoulder. But he too began to purr, pressing his little body against her neck, his head hidden by her hair.

With the kitten out of her way, the white cat padded closer, until she had her front paws just on Hara's knee. “There, there,” she purred, and Hara petted her with both hands, and sniffled.

The wonder of having a grown cat also talking to her, just as Nightbird had said ought to happen, drove back the tears as much as the purring.

“You are very kind,” she told the cat.

“Yes,” the cat agreed placidly. “I am.”

Smudge hiccuped in protest to this comment, and Hara smiled a little. “You know,” she addressed the cat with respect and a touch of pleading, “Smudge needs a home even more than I do. They're going to take me to the ownerage – _orphanage_ – today. But Smudge can't come.”

The white cat sighed, a long sigh that spoke volumes about how much of an imposition Hara's implied question really was. But at the same time, the ice blue eyes narrowed and the whiskers twitched, things that Hara understood somehow to mean she was thinking about it favorably.

“I suppose.” The white cat spoke directly to Smudge. “The food is mine _first_ ,” she told him sternly. “Toys are mine until I say you can have them, too. Top floor is my territory.”

The kitten blinked. “What is a top floor? What is a toy?”

Hara giggled very softly.

“ _Well_.” The white cat huffed. “Obviously your Person has neglected you.”

“We didn't have toys. We lived in a tent,” Hara explained. “This is the biggest house we've ever seen. And the nicest.”

The white cat's ears rotated a bit, equal parts considering and pleased. “It is rather fine, isn't it.”

She climbed up into Hara's lap, delicately balancing without needing claws to stand on the girl's legs, and stretched her nose up to just barely touch Smudge's whiskers. “Very well, I suppose you can stay. So long as you remember, I am Queen.”

“Yes.” Smudge's tongue darted out and he washed the silken white cheek, just one small swipe of his tiny pink tongue, but the white cat backed down with a splutter.

Hara noticed how pleased her ears were, even as she grumbled.

Smudge was going to be all right, here.

And she would be all right, too.

“Well, come along then. I will show you what upstairs means. And I _might_ have some old, worn out toy you may take.”

“Okay.”

The kitten tumbled down off his perch – rather literally, sprawling onto the floor with a complete lack of grace. Blancmange shook her head a little. He was going to be a trial until he grew into his limbs and learned his way around. No doubt she'd have to rescue him from the bathtub at least once.

And yet, a warm feeling went through her as he followed after her trustingly. She was not a mothering sort. But she could handle this. He only needed comforting, after all.

What more, after all, was there in a good life, than comfort and happiness? All else was nothing but an inconvenient distraction, surely. So then. She would see that for a little while at least, this young one would have some measure of both.

Her name – her Real name, not the mouth-noise that her Person used – meant Kindness, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my fluff!  
> (pun absolutely intended)


	3. Bide a While

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blancmange receives a visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note: in cat, to be "fluffled" is for the fur to be both ruffled and fluffed out.
> 
> Also, that was a typo originally but why not go with it

The Laughing One was in the garden.

She leaped up onto the table, and demanded petting.

“Where have you been?” She wasn't really cross with him. But for days now, her Person had been so very sad.

“Oh, there and back again,” he answered, and gave her scratches behind her ears. But the scratches were less than satisfactory, and she leaned into the fingers to elicit a better effort.

Her head moved freely, as if no fingers were there at all. She blinked once, then twice.

“Sorry, little love,” the Laughing One said. Blancmange shook her head until her ears flapped, realizing that he had not made an actual sound – and yet he had Spoken.

She eyed him, and sniffed carefully of the fingers-that-weren't.

“Are you going to haunt him?”

The Laughing One smiled. “And will you chase me away if I stay, little Queen?”

“Only if you plan to harm him.” She licked her shoulder fur thoughtfully. “My sister next door allows three or four spirits to stay among the star-headed ones. They are not angry spirits, so I see no harm in them.”

“I am not angry – not with him, at any rate.” the Laughing One ran his hand over her back, then let his hand rest on the table.

She sat on her haunches and looked at him. “Then you may stay.”

“I appreciate that.” He laughed, a faint sound. “I promise I shall not be a permanent house-guest.”

“Why?”

“Because I am here for a purpose, but I must bide awhile before that purpose can be fulfilled.”

“All right.” She peered at him. For a moment, a great wound showed in his chest, then it faded away. She spread her whiskers, and delicately rubbed her face against the hand that lay on the table with sunlight passing through it. The touch of her magic seemed to surprise the spirit, but the he was laughing once more.

“I see you will have your will of me, one way or another.” He laughed again, and lifted his hand to stroke her back. She purred, feeding just enough aether to him to ensure she got the benefits of his effort.

“Earn your keep,” she answered, her tail curling with amusement.

And so she sat in the sun, petted by what her Person would likely call a ghost, and was content.

Her Person was not home that night, and not the next night either. She paced the foyer in the morning, ignoring the food set out for her, in turns cross and concerned.

She stalked out to the garden around noon, hungry and yet still too out-of-sorts to eat, and grouchy.

The spirit was still there, walking about. When she came out, he turned, and then knelt as she headed straight for him.

“Where is he?” She circled around him, bolstering his essence even more than she had the first day of his presence. “Where is my Person? You must know.”

“Must I?” But he picked her up in his arms, now solid enough to do so, sitting down on the paving stones cross legged. “Aymeric is likely in the infirmary, little queen. He was gravely injured.”

She kneaded against his chest, distressed enough to require such soothing. He stroked her fur, and let her touch his face with her whiskers. She purred her loudest, most rumbling purr, until at last her magic could not sustain the illusion of solid flesh any longer.

“He will be all right,” he told her as she stomped around for a moment, batting angrily at a flower.

“He should be _here_. How can I care for him and heal him if he is not _with_ me?” She spun herself in a circle and sat abruptly as a terrible itch attacked her back left leg. She washed, intensely, until the itch was gone, then shook herself all over and sighed. She must calm down, or she'd pull her own fur out from stress induced itches.

There was a commotion inside the house – many loud strangers were coming inside. She stayed where she was, fur fluffled with consternation. How dare so many intrude here?

But then she heard her Person speaking – his voice wavered, but it was certainly him – and presently all the tramping of feet up and down faded, then ceased. Blancmange waited, ears rotating as she listened hard. When she was certain none of the interlopers remained, she went inside.

She padded up the stairs and down the hall to her room. The door was slightly open and she approached with a certain amount of caution. Old Friend would never step on her a-purpose, but accidents happened when one rushed.

But there was no one in the room, except her Person, who lay on the bed.

She leaped lightly onto the bed, and he groaned softly. “Not now, you tyrant.”

She sang to him, knowing that unlike their spirit guest, he still could not understand her. With great care she paced up the bed, sniffing at him here and there. He stank of two-legger medicine, but even stronger was the miasma of grief, anger, despair, frustration. A brew of black feelings that roiled under his skin. It would rot, like a bite wound, if no one helped him.

She paused at his torso – not far from where she would normally tuck herself against his side. Her whiskers shivered as she perceived the deep, vicious wound beneath the bandages and the plain shirt that did not smell of him.

“They tried to kill him.”

She twitched an ear at the spirit of the Laughing One. “You are always trying to kill one another. Why is this different?”

“Because it was those he thought to be his friends – or at least, his countrymen.”

Her ears went flat.

The spirit came close to the bed, and sat down on the edge, one hand wafting across her Person's face.

“Would that I could comfort him.” The spirit's form shivered. “Would that I had been there to protect him.”

“Well, I am here,” she sneezed, impatient with two-legger regrets. “I shall comfort him.”

“Blancmange,” Aymeric wheezed, “do not step on me for once...”

She sneezed again and stomped her way up onto the pillows, stepping with care until she had curled herself around his head. She ignored his fussing as he spat her tail fur out of his mouth. His hands batted at her weakly, and she merely purred louder and washed his cheek.

He stopped resisting, then, and simply lay still, eyes shut, mouth clamped tight against pain and cat fur.

The spirit, meanwhile, had laughed while she got settled – but now sat quiet and watchful. When the tears came, silently tracing paths down a face lined with pain and worry, he reached out his hand. A single tear slowed as his finger stroked the skin, and Aymeric breathed a name.

“Haurchefant...”

A sob caught in the wounded man's throat. He clamped his arm to his side and grimaced in pain. She could feel him fighting sleep, fighting her own subtle magic, and looked up at the spirit.

“Soothe him.”

“I can't...”

“You can. Do so.”

Slowly the spirit leaned down, hands drifting over the warm body lying on the mattress. She concentrated, purring as hard as she could, and for a bare instant, spirit hands touched flesh. Spirit lips rested against lips, and the spirit's voice whispered into the room.

“Rest, my dear lord commander. Let go, Aymeric. Sleep.”

Exhaustion and weakness prevented Aymeric from opening his eyes, but his heart believed what his eyes could not confirm. He sighed, once, and then relaxed into the mattress.

Within moments, he slept.

Blancmange remained, purring, weaving her healing around her Person as only she could.

Beside the bed, the spirit stood patient vigil over them both.


	4. Discord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blancmange is indeed most displeased

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for the Book Club!

“I beg your pardon?” Aymeric blinked at the new titular Azure Dragoon. Maenne had been made leader of the dragoons of Ishgard, after Estinien had more or less become a free agent. Heustienne, his original second in command, was as yet unable to take up such duties, and so the slender, dark haired woman before him now bore the title – though not the relic.

“I was hoping you would be able to take in Eris for a day or two, Lord Commander.” She shifted her weight slightly. “The Manufactory and Master Garlond are working on installing the new radiator system, and ah...”

Aymeric frowned. “What did that beast do, this time?”

Her mouth twitched. “No one was damaged. But the work cannot proceed with tools being turned into chew toys, or with the smaller members of Master Garlond's crew so frequently knocked over.” The almost-smile faded. “I would not dream of imposing, Lord Commander, but I have been unable to find anyone else to take her on.”

After a moment, Aymeric gave a small sigh, and nodded. “Very well.” He glanced at the chronometer on his wall. “Bring her to the doors in one hour, and I shall take over from there.”

“Thank you very much, Ser Aymeric. I shall see you anon.”

An hour later, Aymeric was standing outside the Congregation of the Knights Most Heavenly, a leather leash wrapped tight around his hand, and holding in a loud sigh of exasperation by sheer will.

“Be a good girl for the Lord Commander, Eris.”

“ _WOOF._ ”

Maenne glanced up at Aymeric, and nodded once. Then, she took herself back inside.

The enormous dog at the end of the leash wagged her tail, thumping Aymeric's leg, and gave him a wide, very toothy, doggy grin.

“Come along, then.” Aymeric tugged, and let out a breath of relief when the massive hound got up and followed him calmly.

He admitted, the dog's behavior had much improved from the last time he had dealt with her. He still intended to contact Estinien as soon as possible, however. Eris was, in effect, his dog.

The dragoon had rescued her when she was a mere puppy, and brought the creature back to Ishgard with him – from the way he told it, there was no one capable of caring for the animal in the villages where he had been patrolling. Aymeric was privately certain that there had been no one willing to take on the responsibility. But then, Estinien had attempted to leave the dog with Aymeric.

He had been quite disgruntled with his friend about that. Aymeric did not hate dogs – but he greatly preferred the quieter nature of cats. Eris had been anything but quiet. It had only taken a single night of the dratted pup wailing all night in the kitchen to convince Aymeric that he could not and would not adopt the creature.

Estinien had been surprised by Aymeric's refusal, but instead of finding a family with space and energy for dealing with the dog – he had taken it to the dragoon barracks.

The decision turned out far better than it had any right to do. The dragoons' tower was fitted with very strong doors and most of its inhabitants preferred leaving via the roof, so the dog was well contained and yet had the run of a relatively large space. The dragoons patrolled both inside the city and out in the lands beyond Ishgard's walls, but that meant there was always someone awake and capable of seeing to the needs of a small animal, even once Eris had become a not-so-small puppy. And by the time the dog was half grown, every single dragoon in the tower had lost their hearts to her – and no small part of their minds too. It was a distinctly odd sight to watch even the hardest hearted, battle scarred veterans literally coo over the mastiff as if she were a cherished grandchild.

He did admit to taking no small amusement from the fact that, the instant the dog misbehaved, Eris was Estinien's dog again – only when she behaved did she belong to everyone.

In the end, the dog was well cared for, had been useful in guarding the Congregation during the worst times – such as when Aymeric had been imprisoned in the Vault – and she had been housebroken and trained. Haphazardly trained, however. That had made for problems just such as this one.

Eris tugged on the leash, whining as she yearned towards a lamp post. Aymeric did not allow her to have her way, knowing that she would only embarrass him. Estinien's assertion that it was in the nature of dogs to urinate on lamp posts had further persuaded Aymeric never to allow the dog such liberties.

He already felt a little tired, dealing with her. He dreaded the moment he reached his home.

Blancmange was going to be _most_ displeased.

Her fur stood on end, her back arched, her mouth gaped open wide. She hissed as ferociously as she could, and added a string of the foulest curses she knew.

The Monster merely let out a slightly louder WOOF and took another step closer. Its teeth were white, but its breath was awful, and its horrible red tongue lolled out, slimy drool hanging off the end and threatening to fly off and land on her with every panted breath. Its fur was coarse and ugly and it smelled _wrong_.

It took one more step towards her.

She screamed, and swiped at it with both her front paws, claws out.

The Monster yelped and scrambled backwards, going to its belly.

Old Friend appeared, and made mouth-noises, but Blancmange was beyond being _reasoned_ with. She hissed again and made another swipe with one paw, tail lashing.

Her Person stepped into view, and there were some more mouth-noises – and then, Old Friend was stepping between her and the Monster, and her Person was tugging at the dreadful creature's collar. She yowled when Old Friend lifted her, her claws still flexing as she fought against the soft hands that tried to hold her.

To her relief, Old Friend carried her away from the Monster and into the kitchen, and quickly set her down. She stood still for an instant, tail still lashing, and then whipped around to stare at the door, taken with a sudden panic that the Monster might do her Person harm.

Old Friend closed the kitchen door.

Blancmange stared at the door for a long moment, eyes wide, fur very slowly laying back down, her ears back and her tail restlessly lashing even now.

Her leg itched. Her face itched. She muttered to herself, and combed her whiskers with her paws, keeping one eye on the door at all times, thinking hard.

This was an utterly unacceptable situation. She would not tolerate Monsters in her house.

But what to do? She was a queen, but she felt distinctly lacking in ability just now. She would never, ever admit it aloud, but she had been truly terrified for a moment there. Not that terror would have stopped her from attacking the intruder. But it was most unpleasant, and worse than that, _humiliating_.

Frustrated, she bit at the itch on her leg, and then settled down for a ferociously thorough wash.

Aymeric sighed, and hauled on the hound's collar once more. He kept his voice stern, doing his best imitation of Estinien's usual tones. “Eris, come along. Now.”

The dog whined, but obeyed, following Aymeric as he kept his hand on her collar. He had to pay strict attention as he led her down the hall. Eris was fond of shoving into the humans around her, a behavior Estinien had always claimed was affectionate. Aymeric sighed again. Damn and blast. Why did I agree to this?

He considered simply leaving the animal in the garden – for about two seconds. The  _last_ time he'd hosted Eris, the hound had destroyed a swath of plantings, some of which could not be replaced. The damage was still visible if one knew what to look for. It was part of why he had placed Haurchefant's shrine where he had, in an attempt to cover the bare patch.

No, not the garden. But he had an entire ballroom that he did not currently to use...

Her Person entered the kitchen, and immediately went to the water place. She watched as he washed his hands – so strange, how two-leggers washed, it never ceased to amaze her that they did not wash sensibly, as she did, but rather immersed themselves in water. Then again – they did not have fur, the poor things, so perhaps it did not take a toll on them to be soaking wet as it did her own kind.

No matter. He was done with his washing, and now came to her, rubbing a cloth over his hands. She sang to him, piteous, demanding attention. She required soothing.

When he sat down and picked her up, she burrowed against him immediately, purring loudly. He made the quiet pleased coughing noise, and at last began to pet her, scratching her ears just so, and giving her fur the long smooth strokes she liked the best. She angled herself, placing her paws on his collarbone, and gave him a few small kisses. She was not above expressing her relief that he was unharmed by the Monster.

Old Friend appeared, and there were mouth-noises again, but the petting did not for a moment falter. Blancmange snuggled in, claws catching on her Person's clothing just enough to stabilize her, and began to plot how to deal with this atrocious invader.

“My lord, I have obtained the necessary items for our...ah...guest.” Jarilant's eyes crinkled. “She is, at the least, a most undemanding house guest.”

“I wish I had foisted her off on Handeloup,” Aymeric muttered. “Not Lucia, she has no place to put the confounded dog, but...” He shook his head. “I shall speak with Garlond first thing in the morning, and find out what sort of time table he has. I seem to recall that outfitting the Temple Knights' barracks took merely a day.”

Milinne came in, and paused a moment, noticing the cat in Aymeric's arms. “Oh, good, I was afraid that mucking great beast had eaten her.” Then her cheeks colored. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

Aymeric shook his head, smiling. “No, your concerns are valid, and Eris _is_ a mucking great beast. I can only hope we do not need to play host to her for long.”

He had, of course, explained to his two servants the entire situation. They were not really employees of his these days except in name – they were family. They had stayed with him through trials and triumphs alike, and he was very fond of them. But he also knew they were aging, and Eris was a handful for a strong, fit man such as himself...

“Shall I hire on a fellow, to give you a hand with her?”

“I am well able to deal with her,” Jarilant asserted.

“For a day or two,” Milinne added.

Aymeric hid his grin at the way the old steward glowered at the cook, and turned his attention to Blancmange, who was purring up a storm in his arms now.

He was used to her quirks, and so he was aware just how upset she truly was. She usually did not snuggle this way for more than a minute or two. He had held her for long enough now, that his arms were beginning to go numb, and she showed no sign of wanting down.

“I would like to eat,” he told her, but she just twitched her ears at him.

He saw Milinne's look, and ignored it as always. His cook had never approved of him having the cat at the table, but he had long ago won that debate.

The two servants moved about the kitchen, and in short order there was bread and soup on the table, and a little bowl full of cold dodo on the floor for the cat.

She protested when Aymeric set her down, but immediately buried her nose in her food. He resolved to make sure the doors to his room remained locked for the night. If there was another incident in the morning...well, he would not borrow trouble. He would speak with Garlond first, and then he would get in contact with Estinien... Perhaps Tataru would be amenable to tracking the dragoon down again.

Blancmange lay on her Person's bed, warm and comfortable, and gazed at the moon sliding up the sky, just visible through the window. It was a claw moon tonight, and she flexed her own claws, thoughtfully.

She contemplated her tactics with care. She knew where the Monster was – for the moment – being contained. She knew that her Person would leave in the morning, as he always did. Old Friend would feed her, and then attend to whatever it was two-leggers did all day. And that would afford her an opportunity...

There were tall cabinets in the big empty room, and some few chairs, with sheets draped over them. Sometimes, on lazy summer afternoons, she would amuse herself chasing phantoms and dust motes among the shrouded chairs, and burrow under the sheets to explore the dusty, dim, and secret spaces there. During those pleasing little adventures, as she played at vanquishing the dust-dragons, she had also discovered many small, delicate, very breakable objects...she had used all due caution around them then.

Now... She smiled at the moon. She could make a great deal of trouble for that Monster, and thereby persuade the two-leggers to act as her minions in the small matter of disposing of the beast. She need not dirty her paws with the Monster's blood. Though she would not hesitate to do so if the chance presented itself.

She purred, and laid her head on her paws to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a prompt from the book club, and I want to also deeply thank all the lovely folks there who tossed ideas around with me and helped me decide on so many little details for this fun effort!
> 
> if you'd like to join in the insanity, give us a visit!
> 
> Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club
> 
> https://discord.gg/8C6ZKTj


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